The Shadows over Westeros
by Lorithomar
Summary: When a mysterious race of beings known as the Shadar-Kai invade the North, and win, 7000 years before the coming of Aegon, how will they affect the history of Westeros? What new worlds will be open to a world so divided by its own turmoil?
1. Prolouge Part 1

Shadows over Westeros

Summary: When a mysterious race of beings known as the Shadar-Kai invade the North, and win, 7000 years before the coming of Aegon, how will they affect the history of Westeros? What new worlds will be open to a world so divided by its own turmoil?

Prologue part 1

They lost this war. They had lost it from the moment it began, some would say. In fact, they would probably sing dreary and depressing songs about how they had fought a war that could not be won.

Jarren Stark, second born son, and sadly now the heir, of King Jonnel Stark the One-Eyed, brooded in glum acceptance of this fact as he stood upon the ramparts of Winterfell and observed the enemy army as it approached their gates. He still wondered how things had come to this.

It had all begun six years ago, when his father had decided to begin excavating old ruins discovered near Deepwood Motte, due to his desire to "learn more of our history, and maybe discover something new, something important." It seemed harmless then; dirt and debris were cleared, while rusted weapons, pieces of clay pots, tribal fetishes, and other items were occasionally uncovered, and all was well.

Then, about eleven months into excavation, one of the workers dug into what appeared to be a rather large tunnel, the floor of which was covered in wheel marks and footprints. Upon closer examination, it was soon realized that some of the marks were quite recent. King Jonnel ordered a small party of ten brave and strong warriors, armed with crossbows, weapons, lanterns, supplies and pickaxes, men who were not afraid of enclosed spaces, to explore the tunnel and see where it led. Ten went down, but, after several hours, only two returned. The survivors were half mad with fear, with one rambling on about the "shadow men with their chains and spikes". The other man, who was lucid but no less fearful, and missing an ear and a hand, described what had occurred to the exploration party.

The men had traversed the tunnel for what they estimated to be 5 miles, when they noticed a light at the far end of the tunnel moving towards them. As the men held their weapons at the ready, voices could be heard chatting in what seemed to be a rather archaic and bastardized version of the old tongue and something else, something that the man described as sounding like "shadows caressing the inside of your skull". As the light got closer, the men saw what the sources of the voices were, and it was, indeed, a sight to behold. The small party of beings, a smattering of males and females, were slightly taller than the explorers, and looked like humans, though with skin colors ranging from light to dark grey, leaner, and covered in garish tattoos, piercings, and scars. Some went bare-chested, others wore strange, spiked armor, either leather, chain, or plate. All carried either jagged swords or lengths of spiked chain. Most disturbing, the man stated, were their eyes; no pupils, indeed, no trace of white at all, "like twin pits of endless darkness", the warrior had described.

The survivors were rather sparse on details of what had occurred upon this meeting of the two races, only that somehow, a skirmish broke out between the groups, and though the Northman fought bravely, and killed at least 4 of the creatures, 8 men were massacred.

"Every time, we cut one o' em, they seemed to shrug it off. They butchered those eight poor souls, and we could do naught but leave their bodies behind, there in the dark, hidden from the eyes of the old gods!"

King Jonnel had ordered the tunnel entrance boarded up, and guarded by a small battalion of soldiers. For a month, the entrance was silent, with no further disturbances. But, at that month's end, everything changed. An army of the creatures had burst out of not only that entrance, but others hidden in the ground of Deepwood Motte. The garrison of soldiers was slaughtered, and Deepwood Motte was swiftly conquered.

Reports came later that a good portion of House Glover had been either slaughtered or taken captive. The few survivors that fled to Winterfell recounted horrific stories of the creatures throwing themselves into battle with a bizarre combination of wild abandon and orderly tactics, utilizing all forms of combat, including tooth and nail, screeching like crows, and using strange magic that twisted the shadows into weapons, allowed them to actually _teleport through the shadows_, or was accompanied by clarion trumpets and blinding light. It was also learned that this strange race had a name; the shadar-kai. Though King Jonnel swiftly called the banners to retake Deepwood Motte, the creatures managed to not only fend them off, but also gain more territory, using underground assaults, and guerrilla tactics. It had seemed that there was no end to these "shadar-kai" as more and more would keep rushing out of the tunnel entrances every day.

From that disastrous battle at Deepwood Motte, the rest of the North slowly fell over the course of 5 bloody years; first it was the massacre at Torren's Square and the capture of House Tallhart. Then it was the battle of the Last Hearth and the subdual of the mighty Umbers, the slaughter of Dreadfort and the near extinction of the Boltons (thought that was not considered too great a loss), the skirmish at Hornwood, and so on, until Winterfell had become surrounded on all sides, and the enemy was camped right on its doorstep. Though they had pleaded for assistance from the other kingdoms, no help was given. Not even the black brothers of the Night's Watch could assist.

'And so here we are now, having to kneel to these creatures and beg for mercy', Jarren thought bitterly as he watched the shadar-kai king, Razvahn Korlon, as he was known, approach the gates of Winterfell on a black steed along with seven young shadar-kai men and women, his children, and each just as ferocious as their father.

Like most of his kind, the shdar-kai resembled a tall, lean, grey human covered in tattoos, piercings, and scars, though he was even taller and more muscular than most, and his most noticeable blemishes were two swords tattooed point down upon his cheeks. He was clad in spiked plate armor that was a garish collage of gold, white, black, and red, and wore a crown wrought in the shape of axe blades upon his. He had long braided hair dyed the same colors as his armor. An enormous great-axe was strapped to his back, which Jarren had seen him use with great finesse, cleaving a Bolton man in half with one swing of the weapon at the battle of the Dreadfort.

With a gesture from his father, Jarren sighed, shook himself from his thoughts, and followed his father and siblings down to the front gates of Winterfell to negotiate their surrender terms.

At the gates, Jarren's father stood before Razvahn, removed his own crown of swords, and handed it to the shadar-kai. The creature smiled as he accepted the crown, a garish sight coming from a face riddled with piercings, tattoos, scars, and teeth filed to points, which Jarren had also seen him use to tear out an Umber banner man's throat at the battle of the Last Hearth.

That battle had been a horrific slaughter, and though it had been a technical victory for the Northerners, it had been a hollow one, as Jarren's elder brother, Dorren, had been killed in the fighting, made worse by the fact he had died protecting Jarren. He remembered cradling Dorren as he slowly died from chest wounds inflicted by the shadar-kai's horrific chain weapons, wounds meant for Jarren.

The following day, the shadar-kai had attacked in full force, driving out the Northerners and either killing or taking most of proud and strong House Umber hostage. How the now eldest Stark son had wept that day.

"I am glad that you have seen reason King Jonnel", the shadar-kai king said, in a surprisingly strong and commanding voice, triumph alight in his black and silver eyes. "Despite the fact that you have lost this war, you and yours have fought well, and Tempus, god of battle, is pleased. I have no wish to slaughter you like defenseless sheep though, and I will allow you and your family to live. However, your lines time as Kings-in-the-North has ended. I am your new king, and these lands are my people's lands now. You, your family, and all your banner men will live on only as my family's advisors and protectors. But, I will allow you to retain royal blood in your veins by having my sons marry your daughters and having your sons marry my daughters. Through this shall our blood shall be joined, and the land will be stronger for it. What say you, Jonnel Stark?"

Razvahn extended his clawed, scarred, pierced and tattooed hand towards Jonnel. Jarren took the time to notice the various expressions on his sibling's faces; horror on his twin older sisters Jeyne and Alys' faces, disgust on his younger brother's, Brandon and Rickard, and fear on his youngest sister's, Lyanna and Wylla. As for his own self, Jarren was not sure what to feel, perhaps just numb acceptance of all these events. His father turned from Razvahn for a moment and look upon his own children, an expression of sorrow upon his one-eyed face, then sighed, and turned back to the shadar-kai.

"I accept."

With those two words, a handshake, an official treaty, and 7 fold betrothals and marriages, the North was affectively conquered by the shadar-kai.


	2. Prolouge Part 2

Shadows over Westeros

Prologue part 2

The North was, Aegon Targaryen decided, a wild, bleak, and foreboding place.

During his conquest of Westeros, his new subjects had much to say about this particular kingdom, and almost all of it added to its fearsome reputation. The septons and septas of the Seven decried it as a "godless place, full of heathen shadow men and their false idols". The peasants and noble house labeled it the "Shadowy lands, when monsters dwelled in the gloom." The Maesters of old town referred to the race that inhabited the land as the "shadar-kai". The histories stated that the shadar-kai, led by its leaders, House Korlon, had conquered the North and defeated its previous rulers, the ancient Stark family, who had married into the Korlon bloodline and now served as its advisors, bodyguards, and castellans. The shadar-kai had then renamed their new kingdom Ikemmu, which roughly translated to mean "the North-in-Shadow"

What made this kingdom unique was the fact that it was the only one to be relatively untouched by the legendary Andal invasion. Supposedly, the Andals had avoided the land altogether, out of both religious and practical fears. Aegon wondered briefly if history would repeat itself in this century as well. He then shook his head to clear his thoughts.

'This time, Ikemmu will not stand. The Andals did not have three dragons at their beck and call', Aegon thought. At his sides, his sister-wives, Visenya and Rhaenys, stood impatiently.

"What is taking them so long? Are they mocking us?" Visenya asked.

"Patience my sister. We do not want this meeting to erupt into bloodshed", Aegon said.

"I know, brother dear, it is just that patience was never one of my best features", Visenya replied.

Earlier that day, Aegon had sent a messenger to the shadar-kai capital of Winterfell with a message of peaceful negotiation for their race's king. Despite all the whispered tales of doom the shadar-kai seemed to collect about their selves, none of the other kingdoms could deny the race's great martial prowess, and, though they were loath to admit it, the weapons the shadar-kai forged were oft in high demand. Aegon believed that they could become the backbone of any army his dynasty hoped to muster in the future.

Later, the messenger had returned, shaken but otherwise unharmed, stating that the king, Uwan IX, would meet Aegon and his sisters at the border of the North. This was where they now waited.

Suddenly, a watchman shouted out a warning. In the distance, a small band of cloaked and hooded men were riding towards Aegon's party. They stopped at a distance, and then two men dismounted, walked towards the conqueror and his sisters, and drew back their hoods.

The first man was lean, and rather tall with long black hair, and a narrow, clean shaven, yet coldly handsome, face. The oddest features were his mismatched eyes, one black as night and the other as white as snow, light grey skin, a line of small silver stud piercings on the ridge of his nose, and the pair of tattoos on his cheeks in the shape of wolves' heads. A massive greatsword was sheathed upon his back, though he wore no armor, only fine clothing and a thick fur cloak.

The second man was downright bizarre. Like his companion, he was grey-skinned, tall, and had long hair, but it was dyed a garish collage of white, red, gold, and black. He was very muscular, and piercings, tattoos, and scars, of all shapes, sizes, and design covered his face, arms, and any other bit of visible flesh. He was clad in furs and spiked leather armor that was dyed the same colors as his hair. Upon his head was a bronze and iron crown wrought in the shape of axe blades and swords. A huge great-axe was strapped to his back.

Though Aegon had been forewarned of the shadar-kai's appearances and propensities for self-mutilation, he could not help but feel repulsed.

The first man spoke in an emotionless tone. "I am Torrhen Stark, cousin and advisor of Uwan Korlon, fourth of his name and King of Ikemmu, who stands before you now, Lord Aegon."

King Uwan studied Aegon and his sisters for a moment, and then smiled with a mouth full of sharpened teeth, adding to his already fearsome appearance.

"So, this is the Targaryen upstart and his two whores who wish to rule over us all?" he said, in voice that was at once loud and strong, yet harsh and grating, like a sword being sharpened upon a rock. "Not what I was expecting from a conqueror of 5 kingdoms."

Aegon said nothing, but narrowed his eyes. Visenya, however, did not remain silent. "How dare you, creature? This is the man who will be your king!"

Uwan snorted, the motion jangling some of the rings embedded in his nose. "I dare, _woman_, because I am still king of these lands, while you, Aegon, are not. Why should I bow before a Targaryen whelp whose ancestors simply fled here after the fall of their homeland? Should I prostrate myself before a sister-fucker who has done nothing but skulk within his keep of Dragonstone for most of his life? As I recall, the Targaryens were on the lowest rung of the Valyrian hierarchy. What, do you want to conquer these lands so as to piss on their people from the top, as your family was once so pissed upon?"

Aegon replied, "I wish to conquer these lands because I can. I have no desire simply to live the rest of my days hiding away in Dragonstone. I am a conqueror, for it is in my blood. I was born to rule."

Visenya interjected once again. "So bow before him, wretched shadow man! Bow before your rightful king!"

Torrhen raised his hands. "My lords, and ladies, if I please may interject?"

All turned their eyes toward him.

"You must understand, Lord Aegon, we are a very proud people, but we have been content to be isolated, with the exceptions of limited trade, from the other six kingdoms. We have reasons for our isolation, reasons which cannot yet be explained and secrets that must be kept, for Westeros is not yet ready. Instead of conquering us, however, might I suggest a different tactic?"

Torrhen paused for a moment, considering his next words. "An alliance of friendship and cooperation between our two kingdoms, with basic oaths of fealty to aid one another in times of great danger or war; we will provide your armies with our weapons, and in return, we will retain our independence. Along with, if you should desire, a marriage alliance between our progeny."

Aegon thought for moment and then posed a question. "What is to stop me from spitting on your offer, returning to my army, and then reducing you kingdom to ashes and rubble with my three dragons and army?"

As he said this, he noticed that Uwan's grin was beginning to widen while a dangerous gleam crept into his eyes, as if the prospect of fighting 5 conquered kingdoms and three dragons was exciting to the creature. It was rather unsettling.

Torrhen let out a sigh, and then replied, in a voice bereft of emotion, "You could do this, but we are a resilient people. We were born of darkness, and snow, and remember…" at this point, Aegon could not help but notice that the man's shadow seemed to be moving as if it had a life of its own. It then suddenly merged with Aegon's, and he felt bone-searing cold, as if his very soul was being caressed by the hand of the Stranger himself. He could not move. At the same time, blinding light began to slowly emanate from Torrhen's flesh. It hurt to look upon him at all, but he could not even close his eyes. Aegon heard Visenya and Rhaenys cry out in alarm as they no doubt felt the same. "…_ Dragonfire cannot protect you from the shadows, even as the light sears your eyes_," Torrhen finished emotionlessly. He then slightly tilted his head and asked "So, what say you, King Aegon?"

When he did not reply at first, the cold feeling and the light intensified. "Very well, I accept, damn your eyes! Now release us demon!" Aegon cried, losing his composure momentarily. The man nodded, and then the cold feeling and light withdrew. Aegon and his sisters gasped and stumbled as feeling returned and their eyes readjusted.

Uwan smiled his gruesome grin again and clapped his cousin on the shoulder. "We shall meet in a day's time to draw out an official treaty. Do not attempt to renege on this agreement, for we will know, and no army will stop us from killing you. Is that to your liking, my lord?" Torrhen asked, as if what had happened had just been a light-hearted, irrelevant discussion about the weather.

Aegon nodded wordlessly, still recovering from the shock of the strange magic. As the two shadar-kai turned and walk away, he heard Uwan say "Well done cousin, well done."

Once they had left, Visenya let her opinions be known. "How dare they?! Brother, we should take the dragons and burn these demons and their fucking kingdom to the ground!" She screeched.

"No, I cannot go back on my word. As a king, that would be seen as a weakness. We shall sign their treaty," Aegon replied, though he had considered that option.

Rhaenys, who had been silent the entire time, finally spoke in a hushed tone. "Aegon, what have we allowed to live upon our doorstep?"

"A necessary evil, my sweet sister, a necessary evil", Aegon said. But, though he kept repeating those words to himself on the way back to his army, he could not help but feel that they were but a mere understatement regarding Ikemmu.

'Perhaps Dorne will be an easier conquest', he thought.


	3. Chapter 1: New Beginnings Part 1

Chapter One

_200 years later_

Tyrion Lannister was lost in his thoughts.

The third child and second born son of Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West, and Lord of Casterly Rock, Tyrion had always known that his prospects in life were few and far between. The fact that he was an ugly, misshapen dwarf who was hated by his own father and sister made even those few prospects lessen exponentially. He had always assumed he would simply live at Casterly Rock as the proverbial "black sheep", and maybe serve as an advisor under his elder Jaime when their "beloved" father had the good grace to die. Tyrion used to envision himself dying in a warm bed, old, fat, wrinkly, and bald while a lovely naked woman sucked his cock and a second one poured wine into his mouth. Content, rich, but perhaps unmarried and unloved by all but his brother.

However, all those dreams had been cruelly dashed after poor Tysha. While Tyrion had never particularly loved his father, it had only been after that moment, after what his father had ordered done to her, that Tyrion had found a reason to actually feel hate for his father; pure, unbridled, yet repressed, hate. So, after two months of planning and brooding in abject misery, coupled with both subtle and not-so-subtle mockery from his sister, and looks of cold uncaring from his father, Tyrion had had enough. He decided to leave, and seek his fortunes elsewhere, in the one place that even his father was hesitant to go.

He remembered how Jaime had run into him as Tyrion was loading a few personal possessions onto a small, donkey cart one evening. The look on his brother's face had been one of confused disbelief.

"Tyrion? What are you doing little brother?" Jaime had asked, without a hint of mockery, just concern.

"I am leaving, Jaime. I am leaving Casterly Rock."

Jaime had appeared stunned. "But why, is it because of what happened?"

"It is not just that, brother. Aside from you, I will find no love here. There is nothing for me here at all. Nothing but misery, cold, haughty lions, and bad memories. Besides, once I am gone, the blemish on father's perfect little pride of Lannisters. I hardly think he or Cersei will even bother to remember me at all."

"Where will you go?"

Tyrion had then spoken one word. One solitary word that somehow held so much weight at that one moment. "North".

Tyrion had thought that Jaime would try to dissuade him, to beg him to stay, to console him. But instead, what Jaime said would forever be regarded in Tyrion's life as one of its greatest moments. With a lopsided, yet saddened grin, Jaime had said, "Well, I cannot very well let you go alone now, can I?" Jaime had left, and, a few hours later, returned dressed and ready, though he had a strange expression upon his face. After gathering a few bags of gold dragons, silver stags, and copper stars, along with about two months' worth of supplies, Jaime and Tyrion departed later that night.

'And so now, here we are', Tyrion thought, gazing upon his brother as he sat beside him on their cart as they rode upon the cobbled kingsroad. Jaime felt Tyrion's sight upon him, turned towards his brother, and grinned though several week's growth of golden beard. "Copper for your thoughts, brother?"

"Just thinking about our new lives once we are at Ikemmu. I can picture it now; I as the owner of one of their famed "pleasure dens", and you as my loyal, over-paid bodyguard." At this Jaime raised an eyebrow and chuckled. Tyrion continued on. "Imagine, there we are, constantly surrounded by beautiful, grey-skinned women day and night, with piercings, and tattoos in all the right places. It will be a grey skinned paradise!" Tyrion stated.

Jaime did naught but laugh and laugh. "Aye, sounds like a dream come true, little brother. But, do you think the shadar-kai will let two humans like us into their kingdom? From I can recall of those boring history lessons we had as children, they are not very trusting of outsiders, and keep to themselves most of time."

Tyrion smirked though his own growth of black and gold beard. "You would be correct brother. However, if you had bothered to pay attention further, or do a little independent study of your own, you would have also learned that there are several cities in Ikemmu, such as Gloomwrought, Raven's Roost, the Last Hearth, Forgeheart. and so on, that are homes to large populations of humans like us, well, maybe like you, as I am sure that there are very few dwarves" Tyrion lectured, with a bit of a smirk. "

Of course, a good deal of Ikemmu's inhabitants are shadar-kai, since their traits breed true, as evidenced by the pallor of their skin, the darkness of their eyes, and their propensity for self-disfigurement. Though, normal humans humans oft still develop rather very pale, or light grey skin, perhaps due to Ikemmu itself. I hear that they call themselves the "shadowborn"".

One of the strange traits of Ikemmu was that the entire kingdom seemed to be lightly shrouded in perpetual dusk. The septons and septas decried it as "foul and demonic sorcery, to keep the holy light of the sun and the Seven out of Ikemmu." Even the wise maesters of Oldtown had been at a loss to explain the phenomenon and, after years of fruitless research, were forced to write it off as strange sorcery as well.

Tyrion shook his to clear his thoughts as they crested another hill. His brother looked to him with a question.

"How much longer until we reach the border, brother?" Jaime asked.

"I would guess about a few more miles. Once we reach the border, we will need to proceed through checkpoint at the Raven's gate, and then, from there we will traverse to one of the major cities. I believe Gloomwrought will be our best option. Despite its fearsome name, from what I have read it is a rather lively city. Its ruler is a shadowborn named Roland Stark, he is a distant uncle of Ikemmu's current king, Razvahn XI. The man is rather light-handed and somewhat lackadaisical when it comes to ruling the city, so some actually believe that it is the noble merchant houses who hold the true power. If you have the know-how, it is a place where anyone can thrive. Perhaps we could start our own one day, eh brother?"

Jaime laughed once again. "Our own house? Oh, and what would we call ourselves? House Pryde?"

Tyrion thought for a moment, and then shrugged. "Well, why not?" From now on, we are Tyrion and Jaime Pryde."

Anything Jaime had been planning to say died in his throat as they crested the final hill and beheld the Raven's Gate.

As the only official passageway, land wise, into Ikemmu, the Raven's Gate had been built during the reign of King Uwan the Defiant at the southern edge of the Neck, after his famed meeting with Aegon the Conqueror. It was erected as a way to regulate the flow of any travelers coming to and from Ikemmu, though those were rather sparse. The gate itself was actually a large fortress, and it was more tightly and more jealously guarded than a miser's wealth, with its namesake being a very large and very wide steel portcullis engraved with bas reliefs of ravens.

As the two brothers approached, a bored looking shadowborn guard with multiple piercings on his ears, garbed in chainmail, and carrying a sword sheathed at his side strode up to the two brothers and asked for identification. Tyrion handed him the necessary papers, which the guard barely glanced at, and he then paid the necessary fees. The guard then made a sharp whistling sound, and the giant portcullis was raised. With that, Tyrion and Jaime Pryde entered the kingdom of Ikemmu, the North-In-Shadow.


	4. Chapter 2: New Beginnings Part 2

Chapter 2

Ikemmu, Jaime Lannister, no, Jaime _Pryde_, decided, was very gloomy and a bit creepy. The whole land seemed to be unnaturally saturated in perpetual dusk. It was the kind of atmosphere made you recall depressing and scary memories that you thought had been buried deep down and long forgotten. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. He and Tyrion had been traveling along the merchant's road, as the pathway from the Raven's Gate to Gloomwrought was termed, for perhaps an hour at least. They had been making idle conversation during that hour.

"So, once we reach Gloomwrought, what will we need to do first, little brother?"

"Tonight, Jaime we will find a place to eat a hot meal and soft beds on which to lay our weary heads. Tomorrow, we will begin our search to buy either a pleasure den or a small merchant company, and from there, we will, hopefully, slowly but surely expand."

"It sounds like a good plan. Though, I suppose I shall be the muscle, and you shall be the brains?" Jaime asked with humor.

"Well of course, brother. I would not want it any other way. You cannot expect me to swing a sword and stand guard while you sit and pour over countless sheets full of endless sums and figures."

They shared a laugh, one which died in their throats as they beheld Gloomwrought.

If ever a city could be described like a looming beast ready to pounce on its unsuspecting prey, Gloomwrought would be that city. It was full of dark, slightly leaning buildings, many of which seemed to sprawl outwards from the city's center. It looked ominous, and it was to be their home. To Jaime, it looked like a black lion intent on devouring its prey. That thought of a lion brought back unwanted memories of home, and what he had done to be sure that he and Tyrion would not be followed by their father. Jaime banished the thoughts from his mind as they entered through the city gates, and rode into the city proper. What they saw left them speechless.

In the streets, the majority of the inhabitants were shadar-kai and shadowborn, but there were other…._beings_ as well. Jaime saw creatures that looked like a cross between a human and a dragon, only without wings or a tail. He beheld other that resembled Tyrion in size, only they were more muscular and had long, thick beards. There appeared to be one race that was even smaller than his brother! All these and more, from humans with outrageous skin colors whose faces appeared to be coved in intricate mask-like tattoos that faintly glowed, to stone-skinned creatures who seemed as tall as Gregor Clegane, and were covered in little grey circles. It was all seemed so fantastically unbelievable.

"'We have reasons for our isolation, reasons which cannot yet be explained and secrets that must be kept, for Westeros is not yet ready.' " Tyrion murmured.

"What was that, brother?" Jaime asked.

"The very words that Torrhen Stark, cousin and advisor of Uwan the defiant, said to Aegon and his sisters the day the Treaty of Shadows was signed. These…creatures must be some of those secrets brother! This is fantastic!"

The two brothers looked around for a bit more at all the strange sights, then, reluctantly, turned their gazes forward and headed to find an inn.

Since they had no idea where exactly to go to find one, they had to frequently stop and ask for directions. They were eventually directed to the Black Griffon inn. It looked like any other inn, though on the inside more of the strange races stat at tables, ate, drank or simply talked. Jaime watched as Tyrion paid a fee to a red-skinned creature with horns and a tail who he assumed was the proprietor. They were then directed to a table, and two bowls of what appeared to be steaming hot beef stew were set in front of them, along with fresh bread and two flagons of cold ale. It was simple, but good fare.

Taking their flagons in hand, the two brothers raised a toast.

"To House Pryde. Long may it last", Jaime said.

"To wealth, power, and to stepping out of father's damned shadow in the one place where there are an abundance of them!" They clinked their flagons, drank deep, and then began to eat their stew in content silence.

After a while, Tyrion began to have a nagging thought, one which had never come to the forefront of his mind during their month-long sojourn to Ikemmu.

"Jaime", Tyrion began. His brother looked up.

"I have been wondering, why has father never sent anyone after us, or at least, after you? He could not have cared less about me, but you, and Cersei, were always his favorites."

At this, Jaime flinched momentarily, and then gave a noticeably forced grin. "Do not worry about it brother, I took care of everything."

Tyrion looked at him a moment, shrugged, and went back to his meal. Jaime, on the other hand, suddenly did not have that much of an appetite anymore. After their dishes had been cleared, they were given a room with two beds, where they set down their belongings, with Jaime unbuckling his sword belt, and promptly sank into their feather mattresses. Jaime's last conscious thoughts were of Casterly rock, his father, and Cersei. However, his dreams though, were of a lion, strong, yet mangy and beaten, and of two cubs leaving as their fur turned grey and the manes grew streaks of grey-black, while a single cub took their place.

The next day, the two brothers had breakfast, set out into the street with their horse and cart, and, after a few hours of searching, bought a small pleasure den that was also used as a trading house and an inn. Thus began the first day of their new lives in the city of Gloomwrought.

**I know this chapter is significantly shorter than my previous ones so far, for this I apologize. **


	5. Spiders, Secrets, little Birds, and lies

Chapter 3

Varys was worried. That in itself was odd, because he was rarely ever worried. As he sat waiting for the King's small council to begin with the arrival of the King's Hand, he began to think and remember. He had spent nine tiresome years fully integrating himself into King Aerys' small council at King's Landing, trying to mollify the King's insanity, or at least guide it in the right direction, for the good of the realm, of course. He'd had everything almost perfect; Tywin Lannister as Hand of the king to guide the realm into a good tomorrow, with Varys himself as Master of Whispers, to reveal those tidbits of information, provided by his little birds, necessary to give the others a push in the needed direction, if not the right one.

But alas, it seemed that the king's insanity was not as easily controlled as Varys had believed. He had begun burning alive minor lords and small folk alike with wildfire, for all manner of crimes both real and imagined. Tywin Lannister had resigned as Hand, due to some undisclosed personal incident or argument between the two. And, to make matters worse, the king's youngest son, Viserys, had died of a sudden fever, which only served as more fuel for the already raging inferno that was Aerys' madness. While that could have been eventually factored into Varys' plans, what he had not counted on was the new man who had been handpicked by Aerys himself, oddly enough, to be his new Hand. Upon that thought reaching Varys' bald and powdered head, the king's Hand himself entered the chamber.

Lord Cedric Velshoraan was, physically at least, an impressive specimen; tall, reasonably muscular, and handsome with a strong chin and a lean, symmetrical face that was framed by a cascade of shoulder length black hair with a white stripe running through it, finishing off the effect with a short beard adorning his chin. A smile always seemed to grace his lips, one that on the surface spoke of benevolence and kindness, but, to Varys' trained senses, seemed to hide something dangerous. He wore dark purple robes, trimmed with black, that were of an undeniably rich quality, and oddly enough, always carried, strapped to the side of his belt with a length of chain, a medium sized tome, which he would occasionally leaf through, as though looking for something amongst its words.

The man was, however, effectively a mystery to Varys. No matter where or how hard his little birds searched, nothing could be discovered about the current Hand's past. He claimed he was from the East, and though Varys was sure it was a lie, somehow, there had seemed to be a sense of truth to it, as if it was a truthful lie, though the concept itself was rather absurd, of course.

As Varys contemplated, Lord Cedric cleared his throat, and spoke. "Thank you my lords, and now, let us begin." The man's voice was rich, deep, and commanding, like that of a general's.

As the meeting began, and later continued to wear on, Varys, pretending to listen with an occasional nod of the head when necessary, continued to contemplate. Lord Cedric had, in a way, been a boon to the Six Kingdoms of Westeros. His policies of tax reform, his numerous charities throughout the city, and the amnesty extended towards criminals who had committed lesser crimes made him popular with the small folk. He had helped broker peace between noble houses whose feuds went back centuries. And, despite Aerys' occasional immolation of a minor noble or peasant, somehow Cedric would manage to mollify the victim's house or family, perhaps with honeyed words and promises of a monetary or marital nature. Though, what worried Varys was that before, the King's burnings had made some semblance of order, gruesome though they might have been, since each victim had made some murmurings of complaint towards Aerys' reign. When Cedric had taken over the position as Hand, the burnings had become bizarrely random.

In Varys' opinion, despite all he had done, something about Lord Cedric Velshoraan seemed….wrong, almost as if he was too perfect. Varys' little birds often reported that Cedric would be seen in deep conference with the king, apparently sometimes letting him leaf through the book that hung at Cedric's waist, like an adult letting a child hold the adult's sword. As for the king, whenever it suited his madness to attend council meetings, he would hang on Lord Cedric's every word and endorse his every decision, just as many of the other lords of the council did.

Lord Cedric aside, however, there had been reports of some questionable activity along the border separating Westeros from Ikemmu, possibly bandits, and that King Razvahn XI had begun to increase patrols of his kingdom's Border Guard. But, Varys decided that it was not necessary to mention now, though perhaps at a later date.

Before he knew it, the meeting had ended, and all the lords bowed to one another as each left the room to purse their own agendas. Varys himself left to view King's Landing from atop the battlements of the Red Keep, as he was wont to do when he need to think in relative serenity.

As he stood upon the battlements, breathed in the fresh air, and tried to ignore the stench emanating from the city below, Varys heard footsteps echoing behind him, and, out of the corner of his eye, noticed Lord Cedric come to a stop next to him.

After a few minutes of silence between the two men, Cedric spoke. "It is a rather wondrous view, is it not, Lord Varys?"

Varys pondered the question, and then replied in his demure fashion, "I would suppose, though far be it from me to judge, as I am no architect, only a mere servant of the realm."

Cedric let loose a short but powerful laugh. "Aye, I suppose you would be right about that. I noticed you did not have much to say at today's council meeting. Indeed, you seemed lost in thought. Not a positive reflection for a man of your position, Master of Whispers. No interesting tidbits from your little birds?"

"I apologize for my silence today, my lord, but anything I had gathered from my little birds recently have been of no importance, great or small. Merely everyday events of the realm and its borders, and thus hardly worth mentioning."

Cedric smirked, and then was quiet for a several moments. "Do you know what it is that I admire about humanity, Lord Varys"?

Though taken aback by the sudden question and change of topic, Varys let nothing show on his face as he replied "Not particularly my lord Hand."

At this, Cedric smiled. "What I admire is their ability to tell lies, and keep secrets." Varys began to feel a slight unease creeping down his neck, though his face remained impassive.

"Yes, for you see, what I have observed in the past is that when faced with being true or being false, most men will always choose the course of action that suits their own needs the most. Sometimes, that means they will tell the truth, but usually, they end up lying, as if that were an integral part of their nature, doing the wrong thing, and being quite selfish. In addition, most men more oft than not will always have a secret. One tiny, little thing about them that they feel must be hidden from all. That is rather fascinating, wouldn't you agree, Lord Varys?"

The chill running down his neck began to increase. He felt a tiny bead of sweat forming upon his brow. "Yes…that does sound rather intriguing, Lord Hand".

"And", Cedric continued, "At that moment, when the man begins to lie, with his secrets and his falsehoods, do you know what creature he reminds me of?" At this, Cedric's seemingly friendly smile turned darker, more predatory, like the sort of smile one gave their enemy when promising death, destruction and all other kinds of horrors upon them, or when a predator has cornered his helpless prey and begins toying with it. "The creature he reminds me of…is a Spider."

Hidden beneath his voluminous robes, Varys' hands began to tremble.

"By themselves, Spiders are such sad, disgusting little creatures; eight legs, eight eyes, and a hairy, bulbous body. So very distasteful. Yet, when they spin their webs, they have something to support them, to help them rise up over all the other little insects, to make it seem as if they, and their little birds, hold all the real power. But", at this, Cedric put his hand on Varys' shoulder and began moving it in a crawling motion up and down, "each strand of that web is so deceptively fragile. If you cut one thread, the web starts to sag. Thus, if you cut enough threads, the web falls apart, and the spider lands on the ground, waiting to be crushed underfoot by a passing boot. You do not even have to destroy the entire web, just cut certain strands, strangle a few little birds, and it unravels all by itself. Remarkable, isn't it?"

By now, the sweat upon Varys' brow was intensifying, and it took much willpower to keep his entire body from shaking.

"Now, despite you being a man who has many secrets and many lies spun throughout much of our fair kingdom, I see no reason why we cannot be friends, or, at least _trust_ one another, don't you agree?"

"…..yes, my lord Hand."

"Good. I am so very glad that you understand."

Varys could not have left those battlements more quickly. But, as he left, he turned back for a moment to observe Lord Cedric. The man was still looking down upon the city of Kings landing, though, to Varys' mind, it was not as an observer enjoying a relatively wonder view, no, it felt more like a king, seeing all that was his to rule and dominate. Then, Cedric turned his head and smiled once again towards the Master of Whispers.

It was all Varys could do to not run away at that very moment.

Later, he would receive reports that a few of his "birds" were found dead with broken necks.

**Having read some reviews, I understand that Cedric is being unsubtle. That is the point. It was intentional on his part. What makes him dangerous is that he is intelligent and straightforward, and intelligence does not always require subtlety. In my own opinion, one of the things about Varys is that he is used to intelligent people using endless, subtle metaphors, and to not so intelligent people being blunt and direct. In essence, Varys has dealt with intelligent people, straightforward people, and dangerous people. Rarely has he dealt with someone who is all three, and, adding to the fact that Cedric is a complete mystery, both in past and in his apparent motives, this worries and scares Varys. Also, there is a great deal more to Lord Velshoraan than what meets the eye. **


	6. Ours is the Fury

Chapter 4

Stannis Baratheon, second born son of the deceased Lord Steffon Baratheon, idly wondered where his brother was.

Not his younger brother, as he knew Renly was at his lessons. No, he was thinking of his older brother. Knowing Robert, though, he was probably either at one of the brothels or taverns in Storm's End, or in the court yard, using that large hammer of his to smash inanimate training dummies into splinters and paste.

Stannis was never one for idle speculation, but he sometimes wondered if his brother's choice in weapons reflected some part of his nature. Yes, Robert had a slightly disturbing love of battle, and he indulged often in drink, hunts, and whores, but a hammer was still a rather brutish weapon, especially for a trueborn scion of the Baratheon bloodline. Of course, considering that their house's words were "_Ours is the Fury_", perhaps Robert's disposition and choice of weapon was not so surprising after all. Stannis himself always preferred the sword. It was a traditional weapon, one that he had been trained to use since childhood, and an instrument that he was content to defend himself with. While he was not the greatest of swordsmen, he still took moderate pride in the fact that his abilities would help keep him alive if the need ever arose.

Stannis shook his head to clear his thoughts as thunder boomed in the distance. What was wrong with him? He did not usually speculate about much, if anything at all. He thought it an idiotic waste of time. Perhaps he was simply becoming bored. The evening was feeling strangely slow, for some reason.

He turned back to the tome he was studying. It was entitled _The Gods of the World: a Treatise on Various Mythologies, and Superstitions. From Westeros to the East. By Maester Willam_.

According to the histories, Willam had focused less of his studies on medicine and healing, as most Maesters were wont to do, and spent more time studying mythologies of the various cultures of the world. He had even asked the Archmaesters of the Citadel for permission to leave on a journey to further research various religions. They had debated, and, seeing no harm in it, decided to let him take the journey, with a few assistants, several months' worth of supplies, a ship, and a small guard of Hightower soldiers. For a few years, the maester had traversed with his retinue to as much as the world as he could, documenting his findings and research about the various religions and their mythologies, noting similarities and differences, observing the rituals that their worshippers performed for their respective deities, and, of course, making a list of each deity and what he, she or it represented, such as the Fire God, R'hllor, and the red priests of Asshai who venerated him.

While most of his findings were thoroughly documented and recorded, the one religion that he was rather sparse about, Stannis noted as he leafed through the tome, was the religion of the shadar-kai of Ikemmu. That in itself was not an utter surprise, as the race was rather secretive and distrustful of outsiders. Though Willam had traveled to the kingdom, and had been allowed in, all he had said of his findings, whatever they had been, was that they were "wondrous". For the rest of his days, when he returned to the citadel, he refused to speak of or document what he had saw in that shadowy kingdom, only saying that he had been treated kindly, and that upon his deathbed, he had died with a smile upon his face that could be described as a child's smile when they are expecting a much-wanted present.

Stannis sighed, and then closed the book. Why he had even bothered to read such a book was beyond him, as he wanted nothing to do with deities of any kind. Oh, he used to believe in the Seven when he was younger, as any good little Westerosi did, but that had all changed when he and Robert had received word of their parent's deaths. A shipwreck, off the coast of their own homeland, with the only survivor being a strange little man they called Patches, who spent all his days prancing about the castle and singing bizarre and nonsensical songs about the ocean, fish, and mermaids. Most just gave him a wide berth, out of both pity and perhaps fearful disgust, though Robert and Renly found him amusing.

Stannis had cursed and renounced all gods that day, with the thought that any gods, gods that his parents had venerated, who were cruel enough to take his father and mother in sight of their children would never have his worship. Even until the day he died. If it made him a blasphemer, then so be it.

With these thoughts in his head, he angrily shoved the book back into its place upon the shelves, and walked out of his family's library. As he strode towards the main hall, he heard the sound of doors opening, thus signaling his brother's return.

As his brother strode into view and came to a stop before him, not for the first time Stannis wondered how two men born from the same union could have so few similarities, and so many differences. While both were tall, broad of shoulder, muscled, and had their father's blue eyes and black hair, aside from those traits, they could have been as different as night and day.

Robert Baratheon was taller still, his hair long and wild, and his physique was built like a bull's. The rain water and sweat dripping off of his clothes and hair only seemed to add to the effect. He was handsome, affable, charming, charismatic, and seemed to always be trying to make his enemies into his friends, if possible. Women flocked to him in droves, and Stannis reasoned that there was probably more than one farmer's daughter or whore in the Stormlands who either had had, or still carried, a black haired and blue eyed bastard child in their bellies.

Stannis, on the other hand, sometimes humorlessly thought that women flocked _from_ him in droves. While not particularly unattractive, Stannis knew that he was nowhere near as swoon-worthy as Robert.

His brother's sudden clap upon his shoulder shook Stannis loose from his thoughts. He looked up into Robert's happily grinning face, was silent for a moment longer, and then said, "Robert, I was wondering where you've been until now."

Robert looked at him strangely for a moment, then smiled again and laughed in a loud, strong voice. "What's this? Is my little brother, Stern Stannis, actually showing some emotion for once?!" He laughed again.

While Stannis knew that there was no malice behind Robert's words, the mention of his unofficial nickname, "Stern Stannis", still caused him to unconsciously grind his teeth in aggravated displeasure. Obviously noticing the displeased expression on his younger brother's face, Robert at least had the decency to look momentarily ashamed. "Oh come now brother! You know I only jest. You should at least try to laugh once in a while, as it will do you some good."

Slinging his arm around Stannis's shoulders, Robert began steering him towards the dining hall. "Now, why don't we collect little Renly and have the cooks prepare us some dinner? I am quite famished."

As per his brother's orders, their youngest brother, Renly Baratheon was brought before his brothers, where Robert preceded to envelop the nine year old boy in a hug and lift him squealing in laughter off the ground. Stannis, on the other hand, just gave Renly a cursory nod.

Before long, the cooks were finished, and the brothers Baratheon were seated at their table and tucked into venison, bread, and fresh vegetables. While Stannis ate in his usual silent and brooding manner, Robert and Renly chatted amiably with one another. Renly prattled on about everything he had done today and everything that maester Cressan had taught him, while Robert told their younger brother a few funny stories and jokes. Through it all, Stannis just ate his meal in silence, barely listening. After dinner, the brothers bade each other good night, and went to their own rooms. On the way to his room, Stannis suddenly had an indescribable urge to return to the library and take up Maester Willam's tome on the deities once more. He did so, and then headed off to his room where he changed into his nightclothes, lit a candle, settled into bed, and began to read.

The candle had burned low, and his eyes began to droop, when Stannis heard a scream. An ear-rending, heartbroken, bellowing scream. It was Robert's voice, and it came from Renly's bedroom. Throwing propriety to the wind, Stannis rushed to his younger brother's chambers, where maester Cressan and a few servants stood. The maester caught Stannis's gaze, stood aside, and let him enter.

There was blood. That was the first thing he saw. There was a good deal of it staining the bed, and floor along with some burn marks He saw Robert hunched over a small, half burnt corpse, weeping piteously in great heaving sobs, while another, larger corpse lay on the floor with its head smashed in. Disbelief flooded through Stannis.

"…..Robert?" he asked tentatively.

"Robert stopped weeping for a moment, and looked up at his younger sibling, his eyes red with running tears, his clothes rumpled, and his hair disheveled. His hands still clutched the small corpse. "He's dead, Stannis. They killed him!"

Surely, Robert did not mean who he thought, fate was not so cruel as to take from him twice. "…..no".

"YES! RENLY IS DEAD, STANNIS! HE'S BEEN MURDERED!"

"But he was a lad! Who would want to kill him?!" Yes, he knew he was shouting, and he knew people could hear him, but he did not care.

At this, Robert's red eyes turned hard, and he began to shake in barely suppressed rage. "That assassin", he pointed towards the second corpse, "carried the mark of the Targaryens. They did this."

At that, Stannis's eyes widened. "Do you honestly think that they would do _this_?"

"OPEN UP YOUR FUCKING EYES STANNIS! King Aerys has always been so damned fond of burning people! Only he would order an assassin to do this to a corpse! NOW HE HAS GONE TOO FAR! THIS MEANS WAR!"

It was at times like this that Roberts's ability to command shone through. "Send ravens to all our loyal Bannerman, to Jon Arryn of the Eyrie, to anyone who will listen! There will be blood to pay! THIS IS WAR!

As the maester hurried off as best he can to send the requested ravens, and the servants ran off, Robert sank back down onto his knees, cradled their brother's charred corpse in his arms, and began to weep again. Stannis walked silently back to his room. As he entered his chambers, he caught sight of Maester Willam's tome on the gods. Overcome with a sudden and black rage, he ripped the book to shreds, and threw the remains out of his window.

Meanwhile, the voice of Patcheface could suddenly be heard ringing throughout the castle;

_The shadows have come to dance and stay, dance and stay, dance and stay._

_The lost fishes will be found, and the dark mother never goes away. _


	7. Drums of War

**I understand that this is a very short chapter. It is a summary, since I could not write out the entire war, as I need to quickly progress the story. To compensate, I will release a second chapter as well.**

Chapter 5

War had come to Westeros. War, in all its horrid, disgusting, tragic glory.

After the murder of Renly Baratheon, his older brothers Robert and Stannis, and Jon Arryn of the Eryie had called their banners and allies, and declared themselves in open rebellion against the Targaryen dynasty. Aerys had called for the usurpers to be put down, but his loyalists were routed at the battle of Summerhall by Robert's forces. By its end, a few loyalist houses had even switched over to his side. The iron Islands and Dorne remained neutral from conflict. Unbeknownst to all but a few, Crown Prince Rhaegar had sent his wife, Elia Martell, and his two children, Aegon XI and Rhaenys, accompanied by Llewyn Martell, back to their mother's homeland, by sea, into the protective arms of the Martells, and out of reach from his father, and from the rebels. Meanwhile, the Prince himself chose to accompany and protect his pregnant mother, Queen Rhaella, to Dragonstone.

Of course, the one factor that both sides knew could potentially tip the war in either's favor was Westeros' neighbor to the north, Ikemmu. Both the rebels and the loyalists had repeatedly sent ravens with messages of alliances, citing ancient friendships, and promises, all of which were rebuffed. However, soon after the battle of Ashford, reports were received of several battalions of shadar-kai and shadowborn warriors, led by King Razvahn's kinsman and good-brother, Lord Eddard Stark, venturing from Ikemmu's border. The army joined up with Robert's forces, and preceded to utterly decimate the loyalists at the battle of the Bells, where the loyalists lost heart after seeing the severed head of their commander, Jon Connington, held aloft by Eddard. This, of course, earned Ikemmu, especially House Stark, the enmity of House Connington

The truly decisive victory was at the battle of the trident, in which Lord Randyll Tarly fell. Randyll met his end at Robert's hand by a single blow from his mighty warhammer. Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard surrendered upon Tarly's death.

After the battle, since Robert had suffered a grievous wound from Tarly's sword, Eddard and Arryn went ahead to Kings Landing, when reports came that the Lannister army, which had been hiding away in Casterly Rock, had sacked King's Landing. When they arrived, and Eddard rode upon a black steed into the throne room of the Red Keep, he and his warriors were confronted with a horrific sight; In front of the gates of the throne room, Lord Commander Gerold Dayne amd Oswell Whent, with bloodied swords in hand, stood over the dead bodies of the Mad King's royal pyromancers and the remains of their fellow kingsguard. Upon their faces were expressions of grief and sorrow.

In the throne room himself kneeling across from the body of Aerys the Mad, sword discarded, was Ser Arthur Dayne, the famed Sword of the Morning, staring at his bloody hands. All that could be heard was him repeatedly whispering "I had to. I had no choice." The king's Hand, Lord Cedric Velshoraan, was nowhere to be found.

When Stannis Baratheon, with the assistance of Ser Davos Seaworth, won the siege of Dragonstone, all that could be found in the fortress were a few servants, and Queen Rhaella's dead body. Crown Prince Rhaegar, his infant sister, her nursemaid, and Ser Willem Darry, the Red Keep's master of arms, had vanished. For this, Rhaegar would be derided as "The Prince of Cowards".

Robert was later crowned King of The Six Kingdoms, and, as a way to solidify his pact with House Lannister, married Cersei Lannister, Tywin Lannister's only daughter and one of two children. There had been rumors of Tywin having had two other sons who had left, but they were founded on nothing but whispered half-truths.

After Whent, Dayne, and Hightower were discharged, the Kingsguard as a whole were disbanded.

Jon Arryn was named Robert's Hand of the King, and, as per the agreement he made with Hoster Tully, Lord of Riverrun, in exchange for his troops and support during the war, Arryn married Lysa Tully, Hoster's youngest daughter. Arryn was twelve years her _father's_ senior, while Lysa herself was only 17.

Eddard Stark gathered what remained of the shadar-kai and shadowborn warriors under his command and returned home to his cousin's court in Ikemmu, along with a new bride. Hoster Tully had tried to entice the shadar-kai noble with marriage to his oldest daughter, Catelyn, hoping to gain a foothold of influence in that shadowy kingdom. After much deliberation, Stark accepted.

Varys retained his position on the small council as Master of Whispers, and Jon Arryn became Robert's new hand of the king. With him, he brought a small noble from the Vale, Petyr Baelish

After Robert's Rebellion, peace began to reign once more throughout the land, though nothing would ever be the same. Westeros had been ravaged by war. Families were torn asunder, lives were destroyed, and former friends became distrustful of one another and their houses. Everything and everyone had experienced much loss. So much loss.


	8. Pryde

Chapter 6

_9 years later_

10 years, Tyrion Pryde thought. Ten long, yet at the same time oddly short, years had passed since the day he and his brother had left their former home in the Westlands. And, for those ten years, their fortunes had thrived exponentially. He rubbed the small gold and silver studs that dotted the ridge of his nose, as was his habit when he reminisced. Like the shadar-kai, many humans who lived in Ikemmu, whether shadowborn or not, had adopted the custom of using piercings to denote societal status. Also, as an unintentional effect of Ikemmu's atmosphere, he and Jaime's skin had also taken on a very light grey pallor.

From the moment he and Jaime had bought that small pleasure den, the Whispering Chain, in the Fettered Wards, their star, or rather Tyrion's, though he made sure to share the wealth with Jaime, had done naught but steadily rise. As the pleasure den's reputation and clientele grew and improved through the usage of Tyrion's clever wit, renovations, and more broad variety of "entertainment" (and in no small part to Jaime's protective sword arm, mostly for the usage of "escorting" out those clients who had had a drop too much), Tyrion had gained enough money, and discreetly dispatched enough rivals if the need ever arose, to either start or buy up several trading companies, pleasure dens, and inns both large and small throughout Gloomwrought.

With his political deftness, and no small amount of luck, Tyrion swiftly skyrocketed to becoming one of the wealthiest, influential, and feared nobles in the city, rivalling that of Dedrek Harskel and Olisk Carradh. Oh, he knew they probably plotted his demise in secret, even as they smiled and shook his hand in public, but, to be fair, he was plotting the same towards them. It was a game that Tyrion excelled at, and even relished playing, and oh, how they played it in Gloomwrought. And through it all, the dealings, the buyings, the galas, balls, and so on, Jaime was always there. Stalwart, brave Jaime, always by his side.

The war in Westeros had come as a shock to the two brothers, and were worried for their estranged family. When news had returned that the Targaryen dynasty had been thrown down, with aid from their adopted nation no less, and that their sister was now King Robert's bride, their feelings were...difficult to explain.

"Uncle Tyrion", a small voice said. Tyrion looked up to see the face of his oldest niece, a small 8 year-old half elf named Mialee. Tyrion had been very happy for Jaime when he had married his wife, a lovely dusk elf with chestnut hair and porcelain skin named Gwyndelyn. She and Jaime had met a year after he and Tyrion had bought the Whispering Chain. She was a scion of a minor noble house, the Oakleaves. Her family had been on a trading venture from one of the Deep Cities. They had met at on the street, and Jaime was smitten.

As the Pryde brother's fortunes grew, so did Jaime's infatuation with the elf lady. He had courted her for a year, through letters of correspondence, to which she and her family responded well, and they were married at the year's end by a priestess of Sune, the goddess of love. (As for Tyrion, well, there was always that dwarf brothel, the Strongbone, as he recalled.)

Mialee, the first of the couple's three children, with a fourth on the way, was a smart and lovely child who Tyrion loved as much as any uncle loved his favorite niece. She had his brother's golden hair and emerald green eyes, and her mother's fine features, with her slightly pointed ears pronouncing her own half-elven heritage.

"Uncle Tyrion", she said again a little more forcefully, shaking Tyrion from his musings. He smiled. "Yes, Mia, what is it child?"

"There is a man waiting for you in the hall."

"Ah, that must be the envoy from house Harskel with that business proposition. Thank you, little one." He said with a smile as he got down off of his specialized chair. The term "little one" was a joke between him and Mialee, who was slightly taller that he was. He gestured to his two goliath guards, Charr and Olend, who followed him and his niece out of his study as silently as they could manage, given that fact that they both wore heavy armor and carried large shields and swords sheathed at their sides.

As the four passed through the hallways of The Citadel of New Beginnings, the home of House Pryde and their seat of power, Tyrion took a moment to observe his new house's banner; a field of white emblazoned with a large pile of gold and silver coins, upon which rested an unsheathed sword. Their motto was _neither one without the other_. He then shook his head fondly, and continued on to the great hall with his small entourage.

The Harskel man was waiting there, as Tyrion had expected. The man himself looked remarkably unremarkable, with only a few nose piercings to his credit, and had the look that one would expect of any "everyday" noble; disdainful of everything he considered beneath him, over-confident in his own abilities and supposed "charm", and dressed in fine clothing with a gaudily bejeweled rapier belted at his waist that he had probably never used on an actual person, at least, not without 5 cronies on his side. Tyrion took a deep breath, and cleared his throat to get the man's attention. When the man looked at him, a condescending sneer began to form upon his lips, one which died when he beheld Tyrion's goliath guards standing sternly behind him.

"Yes, I am a human dwarf. Now that that is out of the way, shall we get down to business?" Tyrion asked without missing a beat.

The Harskel man blinked stupidly for a moment, then shook his head and began to speak. "Er, yes, we shall. As you may know, Lord Harskel has sent me to you to negotiate a new trade agreement, the benefits of which could help both our houses immensely."

He pulled out a large map which he unfurled on a table. "If our houses can combine our resources we can have the both the largest trading fleet and collection of forges and caravans, both mundane and magical in Ikemm. With trade routes to The Reach, The Vale, Dorne, Asshai, Braavos, Meereen, the Deep cities, and others, our houses could, if united, potentially corner the market on goods both imported and exported."

Unlike any of the other kingdoms, all that Ikemmu really traded and sold were weapons and armor, mostly non-magical of course, except for minor strengthening spells, along with a few species of shadowbred animals Still, their quality and training made said items become in high demand throughout the Six Kingdoms, the Free Cities, and beyond.

Tyrion considered the man's offer. On the surface, it seemed a reasonable deal, one that could boost his family's fortunes even higher than they already were. Of course, underneath its benign façade, Tyrion could detect a more ulterior motive regarding this hopeful alliance Dedrek was pushing forwards.

"If I am be so bold lord…" "Harwin, Lord Tyrion. I am Harwin Harskel." "Yes. Anyway, as I was saying, if I may be so bold, what would Harskel's supposed hypothetical profit gain be from this alliance if compared to my supposed hypothetical profit gain?"

"Lord Dedrek would be satisfied with 55 percent of all profits that would be gained from this alliance, as it is his idea in the first place, and since he will be providing most of the ships, both seafaring and others, necessary for such a joint venture. You, of course, would provide the required amount of sailors needed for the crews, and workers for the forges."

"But Harskel would provide the captains and first mates, and the overseers?" The man nodded. That would be a win in Harskel's favor, as their captains and overseers could potentially sway away Tyrion's crews and workmen to Dedrek's employ. That would be a low blow. One that Tyrion could not afford to take.

"I have a counter proposal. Why don't we divide everything up evenly, with an equal number of ships and work crews per house? Your house's captains and crews on your ships, and my house's captains and crews on my ships. As for the profits, 45 percent for my house, 45 percent for your house, and the remaining 10 percent for the sailors and workers." If they accepted, this policy would help to espouse his "charitable" virtues to Dedrek's crews and workforce, and hopefully win them over. A lure under the guise of monetary benevolence.

Harwin considered Tyrion's counter offer, then nodded. "Very well, I will take your offer to Lord Harskel. We will send a reply via courier."

Tyrion honestly wondered if Dedrek Harskel would even consider his offer. As Harwin left, Tyrion turned to his young niece, who had been silently observing the exchange the entire time, and smiled. "Now then Mia, why don't we go find you father, mother, and siblings, and see about having dinner?"


	9. Fading Dawn

_10 years later_

As he took another sip of his drink, he looked at his hands. Though to anyone else, they looked relatively clean and uncovered by gloves of any sort, to him, they were still covered in white metal gauntlets drenched in blood, _his _blood. No matter how much he drank, he still saw the blood. It haunted his dreams, and dominated his every waking moment. Every day for the past 18 years, he would train in the courtyards of his ancestral home, train until he would fall from exhaustion, then collect himself, and drown all his sorrows and guilt straight to the bottom of a bottle. Afterwards, he would either drag himself back to the estate, or he would collapse in a drunken mess and a few servants would come and collect his unconscious self, and perhaps unceremoniously dump him into his room. To him it was all he deserved.

Arthur Dayne sighed, then took another sip of his wine. He was on his third bottle. By now, the room had started to blur a bit. He sat by himself at the same small, dreary table in the same small, dreary corner at the same small, dreary tavern that he had been coming to every night for the past 17 years. No one wanted to sit with or be seen with him. Sometimes he felt that his family did not even want to be near him.

Once, he had been the famous Sword of the Morning, protector of the innocent, upholder of the code of chivalry, and wielder of House Dayne's ancestral greatsword, Dawn. His honor had been impeccable, his purpose noble, his actions unquestioned, and his strength great. He often bitterly mused that his decision to join The Mad King's Kingsguard had been the beginning of what would be his fall from grace. It had seemed a grand idea at the time, for he had been so young and so foolish. Oh, he had served faithfully, upholding his vows to the letter, protecting both the royal family and the common folk from harm, forming unbreakable bonds of brotherhood and trust with the other members of the order, and had even managed to strike up a friendship with the then crown prince, Rhaegar.

When he, Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, and Owsell Whent had received word that Jon Connington had died at the battle of the Bells, they had grieved for their brother but remained steadfast in their duty. The moment of reckoning had arrived, though, when, standing guard outside the throne room, the three knights heard Aerys' words to his pyromancers. At that moment, they had been torn; duty to the code, or protect the innocent. As the pyromancers left, the three knights killed them all, without hesitation or mercy. While Oswell and Gerold had guarded the entrance from the rest of the kingsguard, Arthur had entered the throne room, Dawn's white blade drenched dark red in the pyromancer's blood. The look upon the Mad King's drawn and feral face had been one of either disbelief, anger, madness, or perhaps a mixture of all three, Arthur did not know. He had pointed bloody Dawn at the king, imploring him to surrender, to let this madness end, but Aerys had simply spat at him, calling him and his brothers all sorts of black names, and claiming that all he had done, and what he had ordered the now dead pyromancers to do, was necessary for his coming "apotheosis". The king's madness had transcended anything Arthur had ever seen.

Suddenly, the king had leapt towards Arthur, hands outstretched like the claws of some terrible beast, and ended up impaled through the chest upon Dawn's blood-drenched white blade. Arthur had been shocked and horrified, both at himself, and at the king's lunatic actions. Before he had died, the king had spat a large glob of blood onto Arthur's face, and then expired.

He remembered the corpse sliding off wetly, and landing upon the floor with a small splat. Numbly, he had heard Dawn fall from his grasp, but Arthur could do nothing save fall to his knees in front of the king's dead body. Even when the screams from outside the Red Keep began as the Lannister army sacked the city, and Oswell and Gerold slaughtered the rest of the Kingsguard, their brothers in arms, he felt rooted to the spot, simply staring at his hands, his bloody, gauntleted, trembling hands.

When Eddard Stark, mounted upon a great black stallion, and his host of shadar-kai and shadowborn humans had entered the throne room, and beheld Arthur standing over the body of the Mad King, he could do nothing, but continue to stare at his hands. Finally, he had been quietly led away.

Soon after, when Robert Baratheon was crowned king, Arthur, Oswell, and Gerold had been quietly discharged from the Kingsguard, which in turn was forever disbanded. From Kings Landing, the three had parted ways, and he had headed back to his ancestral home of Starfell, and slowly crawled his way straight down to the bottom of a very long bottle. Some call him an oath breaker, a rare few actually called him a hero, but most just left him alone, like the odd man in a room that no cares enough about to even sit near. The worst of it was his new _title_. No longer was he "Sword of the Morning", no, he was bequeathed a new, more fitting epithet: Kingslayer.

'At least Gerold and Oswell can only be called traitors', he bitterly mused.

Arthur was shaken from his self-loathing by a young, cruel voice. "Well, well, _well_. Fancy seeing you here, cousin."

Arthur groaned, and pulled his wine bottle closer to him. This was not what he needed right now. "Darkstar. What an unexpected displeasure."

Gerold "Darkstar" Dayne was from a cadet branch of House Dayne whose home was that of High Hermitage. Looking at him, one would almost think that it was Arthur in his prime, except for the black stripe running through his otherwise silver hair. But Arthur knew that beneath that exterior of otherworldly beauty lurked a savage and dark persona. Darkstar was responsible for a number of black deeds across much of Dorne too awful to be spoken aloud. He was a villain in every sense of the word, made more frightening by the fact that he was perhaps teetering upon the brink of complete insanity.

Once, Arthur had entertained the idea of slaying his dark cousin. But he had decided that becoming a _kin_slayer along with a kingslayer, would only heap more dishonor upon his house. "Why are you here? Come to slay defenseless maids and innocent children?"

Darkstar seemed unfazed by the insult. "Is it so strange of me to wonder how my dear older cousin is doing? After all, family must stick together." Saying this, the man gave smile with the same amount of sweet promise that a jar of poisoned honey gave.

Arthur snorted in response. "The day that shadowy stone you call a heart starts beating and caring about something other than yourself may be the day that I actually die."

"Be careful what you wish for, coz. You never know when such a request may be granted."

Arthur did not rise to the bait, just simply drank another mouthful of wine. "What do you want, Gerold, come to mock me?"

"Why, you wound me Arthur. I simply thought it prudent that I and a few of my loyal men should escort you home tonight. You never know who might take advantage of you in your current _condition_."

Arthur knew that it was not a suggestion. That idea was reinforced when they roughly dragged him from the tavern and threw him onto the street. Even more so when Darkstar began to kick him in the ribs. Just his luck that the man was wearing steel shod boots.

No one did anything, due to Darkstar's notorious reputation. Still, despite the pain in his chest, and the fact that he was lying uncomfortably on his side upon a cobblestone road while a madman kicked him, Arthur found the courage to let loose a laugh. "Well, this is noble of you, Darkstar. Kicking a defenseless drunkard when he is down!"

Darkstar responded with a savage grin and another kick that drove the air from Arthur's lungs. The man's cronies laughed. "Look at you. Arthur Dayne, once the famed Sword of the Morning. The pinnacle of what it meant to be a knight. Now, you're just a pathetic drunkard who killed his king. How hard the mighty have fallen, wouldn't you agree?"

"Aye, though that is something you'll never have to worry about, for you will never be great."

A third kick. This time, Arthur coughed up a bit of blood. "I don't think that you are in any position to judge me, old man, lying upon the ground the way that you are, and in your current state." Darkstar jeered. "When I was young, all I heard were tales about _your_ deeds, about _your_ greatness, and about _your_ damned honor. I have surpassed you in every way, cousin. I am that which you could never be. And soon, Starfell will be mine!"

At this, Arthur found the strength to draw himself upright. "Aye, and how do you reckon that? Do you think my brother, weakened though he may be from his sickness, will make you his heir? He already has an heir. You will get nothing, and one day you will be put down like the mad animal you are, cousin."

Two more kicks, and more blood from his mouth. "So sure you are, Arthur. So confident upon your drunkard's perch of righteous self-pity. Well, do you know what?" At this, Darkstar leaned in close to Arthur's face. "Things change. People die. _Children_ die. And sharp swords will ever be drenched in blood. There is a storm coming, Arthur. And upon it rides the winds of change. When it comes, you will not survive."

With a last kick, Darkstar and his cronies left. Arthur remained upon the ground of that street for a good while, before spitting out some blood, painfully standing up, and began to drag himself back to Starfell.

As with every night, when he fell into slumber's wretched embrace, shadows and the dead filled his dreams; The Smiling Knight, an insane shadar-kai bandit, holding his severed, yet still grinning, head in his hands. King Aerys, a gaping wound in his chest where Dawn had impaled him. The countless innocents slain when the Lannister army had sacked King's Landing. They, and so many others, all staring at him, some accusatory, some pitying. In the dreams, he would scream, he would weep, he would curse, he would plead, or he would do nothing.

Yet, like always, near the end of the dreams, the dead would vanish, chased away by, of all things, a sunrise. A bright, golden, and rose-pink sunrise. And, for a moment, before waking, Arthur Dayne would know peace.


	10. Two Dragons

She dreamed about the lady again. Every night, when she and her brother would lay down their weary heads to sleep, she would dream about a beautiful lady with silver hair as radiant as the moon, garbed in a white dress studded with diamonds that sparkled like tiny stars, and who always had the kindest expression on her perfect and beautiful face. Every night, for the past 17 years, when she dreamed this particular dream, the lady was always holding her hand out to her, moving her lips and saying something which she could never hear as she was too far away. But, every night, in that dream, she always seemed to get a tiny bit closer, yet never close enough, as if something was still holding her back. Then, before she knew it, the dream ended, like it always did, and she woke up to see her brother next to her on the ground, still asleep.

Daenerys Targaryen looked upon the sleeping form of her elder brother, Rhaegar Targaryen. Like her, he was somewhat thin, mostly due to the sparse manner in which they had needed to live for the past 10 years. She remembered the day the servants had forced them to leave Ser Darry's manse after the kind old man had died. Rhaegar could have overpowered the servants, but instead, with dignity, he had gathered some food, taken Dany by the hand, and left. Since then, though they had been living hand to mouth, Rhaegar always made sure she ate enough, which sometimes meant he did not eat at all. He was always so kind. It made her feel guilty sometimes.

As she continued starring at her sleeping sibling, he began to rouse. She shifted back as he rose and turned to face her. The past ten years had not been kind to him; his face, while retaining a hint of its former unearthly beauty, had become more lined and thinner, and he had grown a short, silver beard. There were circles under his eyes, and his hair had become long, tangled, and messy, like hers. There were a few scars upon that face as well, courtesy of assassins sent to kill them, or when protecting her from street toughs. He bore it all stoically, even when people spat at him in the streets and called him the "Prince of Cowards".

"Good morning, little sister", he said, in a now scratchy voice, like he did every morning.

"Good morning brother", she replied.

Without another word, they took the other's hand, and they began to walk towards the market. As they walked, Rhaegar said, "I have a few coins I found last night. It should be enough to get you some breakfast."

"Brother, no. You have not eaten in almost two days, you need to eat. I feel fine." While not entirely true, he still needed to eat, since he was getting weaker.

Rhaegar looked at her for a few moments, and then sighed. "Very well. But, whatever I buy to eat, I am splitting it between us, no argument."

This time it was Daenerys who sighed. "Fine, just as long as you eat something, Rhaegar."

He gave her a small smile. "You looking out for me. What a reversal of roles." She smiled and laughed a bit in reply.

As they walked into the market square, many who saw them, specifically Rhaegar, either hurled insults, or worse, at him, or spat upon them. Through it all, Rhaegar kept his hand around Dany's and ignored all the jeers and taunts.

They came to a small fruit stall, where, though it cost them all of the coins he had found, they managed to buy two apples. While not the freshest, they were nevertheless filling.

As they walked down Essos' streets, Dany began noticing that some men were following them. They seemed like everyday street toughs, so Dany ignored them. However, after a while, she looked again, and saw the same men following them. She told Rhaegar as such, and he nodded, fingering a small dragon-hilted dagger at his belt, the only item that he had kept since the moment they had fled Dragonstone all those years ago. The two turned a corner on the street, only to run into more toughs. They were surrounded. Rhaegar motioned Dany to stay behind him.

The apparent leader of the small group, an large, ugly-looking fellow with small, piggish eyes, a large, bulbous nose that looked as if it had been broken more than once, and a mop of dirty black hair that looked more like an animal that had climbed onto his head and then died, smiled with a mouth full of dirty, yellow teeth, then spoke. "Well, well. Look who we 'ave 'ere lads. The Prince of Cowards hisself. " Amongst the jeers of his compatriots, he gave her brother a mock bow. "So, I do apologize for not lookin' my best, "your grace", but your arrival was rather sudd'n."

Rhaegar's grip tightened around his dagger. "I do not know what you want from us. We just spent our last bit of coin on food. We have nothing of value for you to take."

A second man laughed, in a more refined voice. "Oh, such manners. Alas, I do believe that there is something of value that you have, and that we want. King Robert has a hefty price on your silver heads" At this, he leered gruesomely in Dany's direction. She recoiled.

Rhaegar's hand gripped the dagger so tightly his knuckles turned white. In a voice subtly laced with wrath, he said "You will not lay a hand upon her".

At this, all the toughs laughed. "Oh really?" the refined one said. 'And do you plan to stop us?"

At this, he gestured, and one of the men reached for Dany. Rhaegar preceded to bury the dagger into the man's hand. The man bellowed in sudden agony, then all chaos broke loose. Two more men tackled Rhaegar, punching and kicking. Through it all, Rhaegar yelled at Daenerys to run. As she turned to do so, another man grabbed her by the arms. Instinctively, she kneed him in the groin. He let loose a groan, and fell to his knees. As she began to run, she was grabbed from behind and lifted off the ground. As she screamed, she saw Rhaegar getting beaten. Though he held his own, malnutrition for 17 years supplied him no favors against 3 healthier men. One tough knocked him unconscious. The leader then turned to her. "Now, let's have a taste of that highborn cunt, shall we boys?

As they threw her to the ground, and started tearing at her ragged clothes, she screamed, and one man hit her hard. Then, one of the thugs was suddenly bashed over the head with a flanged mace, the wielder of which was a large, muscular man with a scowl upon his face. Behind him were seven more men, all armed. They then went and proceeded to smash, bludgeon, and butcher the rest of the street toughs.

Through it all, Dany kept screaming, and then fainted. As she did, she felt the sensation of being lifted into someone's arms.

When she awoke, it was in a very soft bed, inside a large room with a small terrace. As she looked around in wonder, the room's door opened, and a man walked in.

He was probably the fattest man she had ever seen, with large teats like a women, a prodigious swell of a stomach, short, plump fingers upon which glittered multiple rings and gems, and a large, forked beard the color of ripe cheese. Upon seeing that she was awake, he smiled. "I am glad to see that you are alright Lady Daenerys. I feared the worst when Xorio and his men brought you and your brother to me beaten, half starved, and unconscious."

Seeing her wary expression, his round face softened. "Do not worry, your brother is resting comfortably in the room next to this one. As for me, you need not be afraid, for I am a friend."

Dany, having gathered her courage, spoke. "Who are you?"

"The man smiled again. "My name is Ilyrio Moaptis, and I want to help you."


	11. A king needs a hand

Half a year later

'_The gods can be so fucking cruel at times.'_

This was the one thought that crossed Robert Baratheon's mind as he gazed upon the body of his former Hand. Upon a stone bier, decked in finery as befitting his station in life, Jon Arryn lay in the silent sleep that only death could provide. Here laid a man who had helped raise Robert Baratheon from childhood, back when he was a ward in the Vale of Arryn. This was the man who had backed Robert when he declared war against the Targaryens in retribution for Renly's death. Hand of the king, Warden of the East, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, and the king's closest friend. Such a man did not deserve to just be struck down by a simple fucking sickness.

After taking a moment to put his hand on the shoulder of his dead friend and mentor, Robert Baratheon preceded to study the one object that had, quite frankly, made his life a living hell for the past 17 years; the Iron Throne. The misshapen, beastly chair, forged from the countless swords of the enemies of Aegon the Conqueror with dragon fire, seemed to cast a shadow upon the room, and loomed over everything before it, even the man who sat upon it. Robert hated the chair, to be honest. He hated the way it looked, how uncomfortable it was, but most of all, he hated what it represented, and what it had done to him.

He sighed. He could guess what many whispered about him behind his back. That they called him "usurper", that he was not a good king. Hells, Robert knew that he was not a good king. That was what a king's Hand was for, to help run the kingdom if the king himself was not entirely suited for ruling. Now, with his Hand of 19 years dead, he would need a new one. But who? That was the question.

As Robert mused and drank from his ever present goblet of wine, he was startled by a small cough emanating from behind him. He turned, almost spilling his wine in the process, and beheld his Master of Whispers, Varys the Spider. Physically, Varys seemed….unthreatening. The eunuch was a rather plump..._person_, with a round, powdered face, and he always spoke in soft, simpering, deferential tones. Yet, he was quite dangerous in his own right, for the Spider always seemed to know everything. Robert looked at him for a moment, and then spoke. "Yes, what is it, Lord Varys?"

With a respectful bow, the eunuch spoke. "Pardon me, your grace, but I simply wished to pay my respects, and to give my condolences to you, however you may value them. I understand that the two of you were quite close."

Robert sighed. "Aye, indeed we were. I loved him like a second father, Varys, which now means I have lost two fathers in one life. I needed him, hells I still need him. At least, I now need a new Hand. But who can I trust? Tywin Lannister?"

Varys appeared to ponder the question, raising a dainty hand up to his chin, as if in thought. After a long awkward silence, Varys spoke again. "If I may be so bold, my king, perhaps there is one who you can trust, though he not of this kingdom. Eddard Stark, I believe his name was?"

That name brought back memories. Oh yes, Eddard Stark. Robert remembered the grim shadar-kai well. He and his strange, shadowy warriors had been valuable allies during the Rebellion. While physically disconcerting at first, what with the man's grey skin, black eyes, multiple piercings and cold demeanor, Robert had somehow managed to make fast friends with the Ikemmian. They'd had each other's back throughout the war, and Eddard himself helped strike a huge blow to the loyalist morale when he had decapitated Jon Connington with a swing of his greatsword. He was intelligent, capable, and utterly ruthless when he needed to be. But, more importantly, he was Robert's friend. "Now there is an idea." However, a thought came to mind. "Just a moment, Lord Varys, will their king allow this?"

Varys smoothly replied, "Oh I do not believe there will be much fuss, your grace. From what reports my few little birds in Ikemmu give, King Razvahn XI is rather reasonable for a shadar-kai, as I am sure ambassador Torin will attest to, despite that nasty business regarding the Iron Islands. Besides, making an Ikemmian, more specifically a member of their royal family, your Hand, may go a long way to greatly improving diplomatic relations between the six kingdoms and the Shadowy Lands."

As the only kingdom to have not been conquered by Aegon I, many Westerosi looked upon the shadowy kingdom with both disdain, suspicion, and perhaps a small dose of jealousy. Following the…_incident _on the Iron Islands, a healthy amount of abject terror was thrown into the mix.

With a happy nod, and a swift emptying of his wine goblet via one long swallow, then tossing it to his nervous page Lancel Lannister who caught it with an awkward fumble, Robert swiftly departed, stopping for a moment to clap Varys upon his silk-encased shoulder.  
>"Aye, it shall be done! Send a raven to their capital of Winterfell, we must prepare for the journey!"<p>

As Varys watched calmly, he then sighed. _'All for the realm'_ he thought to himself, the padded quietly out of the throne room, leaving the Iron Throne and its shadow as the room's only occupants.

xxxxxx

_3 weeks later_

Albrek was feeling bored.

That in itself was not surprising, since his current post was considered one of the dullest in Ikemmu. However, what made it worse for him was that when he got bored, he got angry, and when he got angry, more oft than not bones would end up broken.

As a scion of the Umber family, the source of his tempermant, Albrek always needed to fight something, for Tempus' song ran hot in his veins, as his family was fond of saying. After an incident involving a messy every-man-for-himself tavern brawl, his squad's captain had Albrek assigned to his current post in an effort to both discipline him for his behavior, and to cool his boiling blood. It was where soldiers who had small bouts of petty misbehavior were sent, as only actual criminals, both Ikemmian and Westerosi, or crazy volunteers, were sent to the Wall, or the Road.

He sighed. In an effort to stave off the boredom, he had got to talking with the other soldiers of the garrison stationed at the keep, and was currently listening to the keep's cook, a rather portly shadowborn named Kharas, regale a few listeners with saucy stories on how he had attained some of his more exotic recipes.

"…now, she told that the trick is to apply the pepper and other seasonings to the meat _while_ it is roasting, thus enhancing the flavor while it mixes with the juices, which is why most do not do this over a campfire."

A few nodded, than one asked, "Was this before or after you fucked her?"

Amidst the laughter, Kharas answered. "After, while we rested! But I will say that, like the peppers she was so fond of using in her meals, this dornish lady was delicious with a very fierce flavor. It actually hurt to sit down for a few days!"

More laughter. Even Albrek joined in. Kharas then continued. "Now, let me tell you what I had to do to obtain the flatcakes recipe you all are so fond of. I promise you, sleep will be hard to come by tonight!"

Suddenly, one of the lookouts gave a shout. "Large group coming up the road!"

Everyone turned to Albrek. As part of his punishment, he had been made the spokesperson of the Raven's gate. Basically, it meant that he had to go up to the party and ask for identification papers, sometimes "requiring" a small fee. Groaning, he gathered his halberd, straightened his chainmail shirt, and marched out to meet the traveling party.

He went out and saw that it was indeed a large group. As they drew closer, he saw their banner; a black stag with a crown round its neck against a field of gold, next to a Gold lion against a field of red.

A rider rode up to him. Then, the exchange began.

"Who wishes to travel into Ikemmu this day?" Albrek asked.

"The King of Westeros, Robert Baratheon." The herald announced in a strong voice. "He wishes to visit your kingdom's capital of Winterfell on official business of state."

Albrek looked over the entire party once, than sighed. "Very well. Papers?"

The herald gave the necessary documents, which Albrek barely skimmed and then returned. He then nodded. "All seems to be in order. You may pass."

As the Raven's Gate was cranked open, and the party began to slowly ride through, Albrek took the time to observe those who stood out. Firstly was the Westerosi king, who rode at the front with a group of Baratheon knights. The man himself may have once been an impressive specimen of the male sex, but now he seemed sadly diminished. He had a large gut that bulged grotesquely over the pommel and sides of his saddle, heavy jowls, and a great, thick beard, obviously to hide his multiple chins. He waved to Albrek and his comrades as he rode by.

Behind him rode an odd pair; a young, handsome boy with golden hair and green eyes, dressed in an expensive scarlet doublet and a gold cape, and was surveying everything with a sneering look of disdain. Something about him seemed _wrong._ Behind the boy rode a large man, both in muscle and in height, nearly equal to Albrek's seven feet, garbed in dull, grey plate and chainmail, with his most distinctive feature being a helmet in the shape of a snarling hound's head.

Lastly, a large wheelhouse, painted in colors of gold, black, and scarlet, and decorated with carvings of stags and lions rolled past. Albrek thought that it was rather unsightly.

After the last of the procession had passed through the Raven's Gate, the resulting clang that could be heard as it closed seemed to sound like a bell of doom. Albrek felt unsettled, like the whole thing was an omen of dark things to come.


	12. The Lions in The Ram's Den

Chapter 10

Eddard Stark, kin and good-brother of King Razvahn XI, royal advisor and castellan of Winterfell, felt at peace. He often did, whenever he was in the godswood, especially when he cleaned and sharpened his family's sword, Ice.

Eddard took a moment from his ministrations to examine his surroundings. When the shadar-kai conquered what would be later named Ikemmu 7,000 years ago, they had brought with them a multitude of gods which, as their new subjects had learned, were very real and very powerful. Of course, King Razvahn I had allowed many of the ancient northerners to keep their worship of the old gods, which some still did to this day, though most had converted to the new religions. As such, the great heart tree had not only the customary face carved into it, but also had symbols of the other deities either hanging from its branches, or also carved into its bark. Many, especially the Umbers, felt drawn to Tempus, god of war. Ned, on the other hand, always felt a connection with the god of law and justice, Torm.

Right now, though, the ancient history of his homeland's religions was not at the forefront of his mind at the moment. No, what was worrying him was the message that had been sent from the Westerosi capital of King's Landing 3 weeks ago. A messenger raven had arrived bearing the sigil of Robert Baratheon, the king of the Six Kingdoms of Westeros. The message it had carried stated that the king and his entourage were coming to Winterfell, to discuss matters of great importance. Ned was honestly at a loss for what Robert would want to come to Ikemmu for. A diplomatic treaty? From what Ned remembered of Robert, it seemed rather unlikely. Though they had somehow become good friends during the man's rebellion, Ned was not blind to his faults.

Sighing, he went back to cleaning his sword. Ice had already been an ancient sword during the Stark's thousand year reign of the former North. Later, it had been re-forged and reshaped in the serrated style of the shadar-kai and inlaid with powerful spells both divine and arcane. The sword was massive, a good 6 and a half feet in length, with the blade itself dark grey, razor-edged, and decorated with silver runes down its length. The pommel was a proud Direwolf head with two Sapphires for its eyes. They were to signify Ned's marriage to Catelyn Tully 19 years ago. It had served the Starks, and by extension the Korlons, well for 7 thousand years.

Ned was shaken loose from his thoughts by the sound of footsteps. He looked up to see his wife had approached and sat down across from him. She gave him a smile, warm and loving, and he responded with one of his one.

The past seventeen years had been quite kind to Catelyn Stark. Her hair was still like a cascading waterfall of crimson. Her cobalt blue eyes were still as sharp as the day they had first met. She was a tad less trim than she used to be, courtesy of having had 5 children. She had adopted the northerner's custom of piercings, with a small line of silver studs along her nose ridge, and a few in her ears. While their marriage had been that of a political union, they had grown to love each other, in a way.

After a moment of silence, she spoke. "I had thought to find you here, Ned. You always come here when you feel troubled."

Ned grunted. "Aye, that letter from King's Landing has me troubled." There had been reports that Jon Arryn had died. While never knowing the man personally, Ned had met him a few times, during the Westerosi Rebellion and the Greyjoy Culling. For a man over seventy, he had been remarkably hale and hearty.

"I have no idea", Ned continued, "Why Robert would be coming here at all. It is true that we are friends, forged in blood and steel, but I do not know."

As he spoke, Catelyn walked over and put her hand upon his shoulder. "You are overreacting, Ned, as always. I am sure everything will be fine. Now, come, your cousin has been wondering where you are, as have the children. Robert will be arriving in a few hours. We must be ready."

Ned gave a small smile, then relented to being gently led back to the throne room.

xxxxxx

Cersei had decided, from the moment that the royal entourage had entered Ikemmu, that she hated it. She detested the perpetual gloom, abhorred the way that it always appeared to be dusk, loathed how the air seemed to stick to your skin, but most of all she despised its inhabitants. To her they were like the uncivilized, bloodthirsty demons from a mummer's tale, with their piercings, tattoos, scars, and wild looks. Whenever they passed one or a group upon the road to Winterfell, she would close the curtains to the wheelhouse windows. She did not want the children to have nightmares, after all. She was honestly not surprised that Robert was friends with one of them. Eddard Stark, a cousin to Ikemmu's king. And Robert wanted to make that creature a member of his small council. How abhorrent.

As they entered Ikemmu's capital, she decided to at least take a look out her wheelhouse's window at her surroundings. She was not impressed. Everything seemed garish yet grey all at once. She saw many shadar-kai and shadowborn humans watching the royal procession with curious interest. She ignored them. Robert, on the other hand, she could hear shouting greetings to the creatures. What a fool.

One of the only good things about this trip was the fact that her half-brother was with her. Darren Lannister, Tywin Lannister's legitimized bastard. Roughly five years older than she was, he was tall, handsome, golden haired, green eyed, charming, and skilled in many ways. Apparently the end result of the only time Tywin Lannister had ever imbibed too much alcohol, Darren Hill, as he had been known then, had been borne to a common washerwoman. Unacknowledged for years, it was only when Tyrion and Jaime had…. _left_, that her father had actually recognized his existence. Later, Darren was legitimized by Robert, and Tywin had a new heir. Jaime's departure had hurt very much, considering how closehe and Cersei had been, but Darren had quickly filled the role. At first, she had not liked him, but, after a while, she found her opinion of him was more positive.

At that moment, Darren spoke. "Copper for your thoughts, sister?" He said with a rakish grin.

She sighed. "I detest this place, brother. It is a blight."

He grinned again. "I would not worry much, little sister. We need only spend at least one or two more days in this land, and then we shall depart for King's Landing. Just grit your teeth and bear it, like with Robert."

She rolled her eyes, but gave a light smile nonetheless.

When they entered the main courtyard of Winterfell's castle, with the walls proudly adorned with the banner of House Korlon, a mighty Silver Ram with Gold Horns over a field of dark Grey, the wheelhouse came to a stop. At that, she and the children each stepped out of the wheelhouse with royal dignity.

As she stepped out, she beheld the royal family of Ikemmu. Like the rest of the shadar-kai, they were grey skinned, black eyed, and covered in piercings, scars, and tattoos. All that is, except one, a lovely human woman with long red hair. In the middle of the group could have been none other than Ikemmu's king, Razvahn XI. Taller than anyone else in the courtyard, very muscular, and riddled with piercings, scars, and tattoos of all shapes all over. He had skin the color of a stormy sky, long, braided hair dyed white, gold, red, and black, and was dressed in fine clothes of the same colors. Upon his head was a crown wrought in the shape of axe-blades and swords. On either side stood his extended family, the Korlons and the Starks, all similar, except for the woman. The meeting of the two kings was ruined by the fact that Robert was struggling move his large bulk out of his saddle, and eventually had to be awkwardly helped by a few pages.

Finally, Robert was on the ground, and, followed by Cersei and the children, strode over to Razvahn, who extended, to Cersei's disgust, a clawed hand which Robert took with minute hesitation. The shadar-kai then spoke in a surprisingly deep and commanding voice.

"King Robert, I welcome you to Ikemmu. No Westerosi King has ever visited our fair kingdom. I am proud to call you the first. Welcome!"

With a smile filled with pointy teeth, Razvahn clapped both his free hand upon Robert's shoulders. Without missing a beat, Robert replied, "Yes, King Razvahn. I am honored to be the first King of Westeros to view your fair capital. I wish for nothing but friendship between our two kingdoms. I believe we have much to discuss."

"Aye, indeed we do, which we shall over a feast, for your journey has been long and you and yours must be famished! Come, let us sup on fine dishes, and partake of good wine!"

At this point, both royal parties began to walk towards the large doors leading to Winterfell's main hall. Cersei and her children followed silently.


	13. A marriage and a trinket

Chapter 11

It was his sister's wedding today, and Rhaegar Targaryen could not hate himself more for it.

When Magister Illyrio Moaptis had brought him and Daenerys to the safety of his manse half a year ago, Rhaegar had actually believed that they were finally safe. That they had found a haven at last. How naïve that thought had been. Two days ago, when he had been summoned in to Illyrio's dining room, the fat man had told him of a coming dothraki horde, that its leader, Khal Drogo, had heard tales of Dany's beauty, and wished to marry her. Rhaegar had scoffed at the mere suggestion, but was shocked when Moaptis said that he had already sent the Khal a message of acceptance. That by itself was enough to make him want to throttle the fat man, but it was Moaptis's reason for doing so that almost sent Rhaegar over the edge.

"Khal Drogo has one of the largest khalasars in Essos. He could, through marriage to your sister…."

At this, Rhaegar had surprised everyone, even himself, by slamming his fists upon the table and shouting, "I will not sell my sister to some barbarian warlord LIKE A PIECE OF FUCKING FURNITURE! How can you even suggest something like that?"

Moaptis, though momentarily startled by Rhaegar's outburst, continued. "….be persuaded to help you reclaim your throne."

Rhaegar had laughed at this. "The throne. Reclaim _my_ rightful throne? My family, my _bloodline_ lost any claim to that damnable scrap heap of a chair the day my father became king. It is a curse upon any who sits it. I say let Robert fucking Baratheon keep it. It will kill him off just as well as it did my father. Besides, what possible reason would I have to want to _reclaim_ it?"

At this, he had turned to leave, but what the fat Magister said next to stopped Rhaegar cold. "Because you are a Targaryen."

When those words were spoken, Rhaegar had stopped walking. Illyrio continued.

"That innate desire to conquer, the hunger to rule over the teeming multitudes, both peasant and simpering lords alike. The _need _to be greater than any other man. These are what courses through your family's blood, your majesty. Theses desires were what drove Aegon the first to become a king. Those hungers were what spurred Daeron the young Dragon to conquer Dorne. Seven Hells, those needs were what made _Daemon Blackfyre_ rebel and try to claim the Six Kingdoms for himself from his half-brother. These drives, these hungers, are the very foundations that have built your family's history since the times of the conquest. Just now, though you spoke derisively about the Iron throne and any idea of reclaiming it, in those amethyst eyes of yours, I saw a hunger for it, a desire to rule once again. You surely have felt that way at times. Has it not haunted your dreams, the need to rule, or, at least, to see your children rule? To even see them again?"

Rhaegar honestly could not disagree with the fat man, though that _desire to rule_ was not the only thing of which he dreamed. …._he heard the beat of mighty wings, as strong as the northern wind, echoing across the open sky…. "Tell them nothing of me. It will be better that they forget."_

He shook his head of the memories. "Perhaps I do wish to rule, like my ancestors before me, maybe I do wish for my children to know who their father is. But these are simple fantasies, fantasies which will never come true. You know naught what haunts my dreams. Besides, I will not use Dany to further my own ambitions. She is my sister, not a piece of meat or a sack of gold."

"I will do it."

Rhaegar slowly turned around, to see Danaerys standing in the doorway. The last half year had been kind to her. Where once she was skinny, she was now slender. Where once she had been merely pretty, she was now beautiful. Her curves were that of a woman, her visage that of a goddess. Upon her face, though, was a determined expression.

"Dany…." Rhaegar began. She held up her hand.

"Rhae" her own nickname for him, "please, do not dissuade me. You brought me up on stories of our family's history, its deeds both great and wicked. Though you never said it, I could tell that you yearned for those days, when you were first in line for the throne, for the days when people did not spit upon you in the street and called you foul names. Please, you have done and sacrificed so much for me. Let me do this for you, let me help reclaim our family's kingdom"

Rhaegar was stunned. "Dany, I will not use you for ambitions of conquest."

"No brother, you are not using me for anything. This is my choice, my decision."

Rhaegar almost wept at that moment, and instead simply said nothing and walked out.

Later, when the dothraki horde arrived, and Khal Drogo came to collect his bride to be, Rhaegar has escorted Dany to the Khal. The man was every bit the image of a typical dothraki; tall, fierce, bronze skinned from years under the sun of Essos, his hair twisted into long braids tied off with bells at the end. With a whispered "forgive me" to Danaerys, he gave her hand to Drogo, who then preceded to lead her away. He declined to go to the actual wedding, though he would be travelling with Dany when Drogo's khalasar left tomorrow.

And so, here he was now, not five minutes later, seated upon one of the outer steps of Illyrio's manse, sullen and self-loathing.

At that moment, he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Looking up, he was greeted with a peculiar sight. An elderly, long bearded man, dressed in simple brown robes, like those of a septon, which were patched and stained with various things. The man was swaying from side to side, probably an old drunkard. He then spoke. "Mind if I sit down, young man?" He slurred, in a voice that was rough and scratchy.

Rhaegar said nothing, but just shook his head, and the old man plopped down next to him upon the wide step. Up close, the man's breath stank of stale wine. For a good while, neither said a word, with the elder occasionally drinking from a wine skin he had been carrying. Then, the old man spoke again. "Quite a commotion those damned dothraki are throwing, aye?"

Again, Rhaegar did not answer, and simply shrugged. The man chuckled. "Not very talkative, are you youngster? Ah well, at the very least, would you like a drink?" At this he proffered the wineskin.

Sighing, Rhae took the wine skin, raised a sarcastic toast, and drank. To his surprise, it was Dornish Red. Not a vintage that one would normally expect an old beggar to be imbibing. But, he still relished the taste. As he drank, the old man said "So, the khal is marrying your sister, aye?"

At that, Rhaegar swallowed a bit too much, and spluttered, spilling a bit of the wine. The drunkard cackled at the sight. "Aye, I know who you are, Rhaegar Targaryen, he who they call the prince of cowards. I know of your sister too. If you don't mind me saying, the white hair is a bit of a dead giveaway, to say nothing of those purple orbs of yours."

Rhaegar turned to him sharply and said "What do you know, old man?"

"I can guess that you feel guilty, for giving your sister away to a barbarian like Khal Drogo. That is good, for if you did not, truly you would be less then scum."

"Perhaps I already am."

At this, the man harrumphed. "Young man, from what I have heard of you, I would say that you are anything but. If you would accept the advice of an old fool, than I would tell you that no matter what, always be there for your sister. There is much pain in your heart, pain that you must let go of, lest it consume you, her, and all those around you."

"….is that a threat, old man?"

The elder cackled again. "I don't know, is it?"

Disenchanted, Rhaegar handed the wineskin back to the man, and stood up to leave, when he felt the old one tugging upon his pant leg. "Please, before you leave, would you accept a simple good luck token, for your journey?"

Rhaegar wanted to refuse, but instead decided to humor the man, and nodded. The old man reached into his robe, pulled out something and quickly put into Rhaegar's hand. "Keep this with you, my prince. A dark road still lies ahead of you and your sister, much pain as well. This may help keep a light bright in the darkness."

Rhaegar simply shook his head, turned around, and left. As he walked back into the manse, he glanced down at what the drunk had handed him. What he saw was a surprise. It was a round, average sized medallion, small enough to fit into his hand. A fine chain was attached to it, so as to fit it over his neck. Surprisingly enough, both the chain and the medallion seemed to be made of platinum.

He saw that emblazoned upon the trinket was what seemed to be a noble dragon's head surrounded by seven small golden birds. An unusual item for a destitute drunkard to have, even more so for him to give it away. Shrugging, Rhaegar slipped it over his head onto his neck, and then hurried off to find a horse. He needed to get to Dany.

As he walked away, it occurred to Rhaegar that he never saw the man's face.


	14. A Cold Post

Chapter 13

Sixty years ago, a younger Addolgar Fellforge would have scoffed at the idea that he would be serving at the Wall, let alone as Lord Commander. Of course, sixty years ago, Addolgar did not yet have any reason to be at the Wall. That younger version would have also never believed that being the Lord-Commander of, well, _anything_, meant having to crouch over seemingly endless amounts of paperwork laid upon his desk.

The dwarf pulled his black fur cloak tighter in a somewhat successful attempt to try and ward off the cold. For fifty years, he had served as the Leader of the men who garrisoned the Wall. He had ranged with them, ate with them, and fought with them. As any dwarf would do, he did his best, sticking to his duty as stoically as he could. The men respected him, and he was content with that. Despite only coming to their chests in height, most of the black brothers of the Night's Watch looked up to him, in a way. Of course, there were always a few dissenters, like that upstart Thorne, but he was harmless.

Addolgar suddenly heard a voice and a pounding upon his door. "Lord Commander! Lord Commander!"

"Aye, come in, lad," he grunted.

As the door opened, he looked up from his scrolls and saw the source of the voice to be one Walker Light-step, a middle aged half-elf who had joined the Night's Watch ten years earlier. He was a dutiful ranger, loyal to a fault, and good-hearted to boot.

"Walker. I see you have returned from the patrols. What is so important that you had to barge in like this, while I am in the middle of important paperwork?"

Walker had the decency to look ashamed. After a moment, Addolgar chuckled. "It's alright lad. I may actually enjoy this minor respite. What is it?"

The ranger stood to attention. "Lord Commander. That 4 man patrol you sent out two days ago? The one that had yet to return?"

"Yes. What of it?"

Walker's face turned grim. "What's left of it has returned."

Frowning, Addolgar stood up from his desk and preceded to follow Walker out into the courtyard. He noticed that it was snowing once again. He saw a few men training near the racks of weapons, another small group enjoying a spot of gambling.

The Night's Watch was rather indiscriminate when it came to its members. There all kinds; mostly shadar-kai, along with a small smattering of elves, half-eves, dwarves, some dragonborn, a few gnomes, and of course a large grouping of humans, both shadowborn and Westerosi. Mostly criminals, outcasts, and displaced bastards from the Deep cities and the six kingdoms. From what he could remember of his histories, when King Uwan the Defiant and King Aegon the Conqueror had signed the Compact of Shadows, one of the conditions for peace between the two kigndoms was that the Westerosi could send any criminals or volunteers to serve at the Wall. Of course, nowadays, that option was rarely ever acted upon _voluntarily_ in Westeros and Ikemmu, as some chose the Road.

Despite the small groups clustered about, most were gathered at the entrance to the main gate. Pushing his way through the throng of men with Walker's help, Addolgar beheld the sad remnants of the missing patrol.

Out of the four that had been sent, only one had returned. A young human cleric of Kelemvor, Alderin, if he remembered correctly. Malnourished, hair crusted with snow and dried blood, skin as pale and cold as bone and rocking on the ground in a fetal position, the man seemed nearly out of his mind. Upon closer examination, Addolgar saw that the priest was clutching his faith's holy symbol so tightly that the edges had dug into his hand and caused it to bleed. His arm, Addolgar noted with a hint of disturbed fascination, had been carved with the symbols of the Raven Queen and Kelemvor over and over again until every bit of flesh on the limb was covered in the bloody drawings. All the while, he kept mumbling the same thing over and over again. "Eyes of blue, eyes of blue, Gods of death protect me. Eyes of blue, eyes of blue…."

Giving the man a shake on the shoulder, Addolgar cleared his throat. "Lad, lad, what happened? Where are the others?"

The black brother's eyes seemed to focus for a moment and looked upon the dwarf. "Lord Commander? Is this real? Am I safe? No, none of us are safe. Please, it is so cold! Two days wandering through one of the Nine Hells! Eyes of blue, eyes of blue, eyes of blue, eyes of blue, eyes of blue, Kelemvor protect me, eyes of blue, eyes of blue….."

Addolgar sighed. "Lads, get him to the kitchens, give him some food, and get him warm. When he's lucid, tell me. I need to speak with the Maester."

As the men gingerly lifted the poor cleric up and headed for the kitchens (the warmest place in Castle Black), Addolgar gestured to Walker, and the two of them left for the Maester's domicile underneath Castle Black's rookery.

The blasted birds noticed his arrival and cawed a greeting. "Lord Commander! Lord Commander!"

As always, they found Balasar guarding the doorway. He was a rather intimidating dragonborn, standing at 7 feet, covered in ocher scales, and rippling with muscle. Sent to the Wall after having killed a man in a tavern brawl with his bare hands, Addolgar had put him to work as the Maester's personal guard, assistant, and steward, duties which he took very seriously.

"I am sorry, Lord Commander, Ranger Light-Step, but the Maester is resting. He is an old man, after all." Balasar stated in a deep, reptilian voice.

Before Addolgar could reply, an ancient, weak voice suddenly emanated from behind the door. "It's alright, Balasar, let the Lord Commander in. I don't mind."

With a grumble that sounded like minor rock slide, Balasar opened the door, and let Addolgar and Walker into Maester Aemon's chambers, where the man himself was seated upon his bed.

Aemon Targaryen was, at least by a human's standards, rather elderly, especially in appearance. At almost a century of life, the man was stooped with wrinkly age, cursed with terrible blindness, and could not move about without great assistance from Balasar. Despite these infirmities, he still retained a vast knowledge on a variety of subjects, ranging from medicine to lore and ancient history.

Addolgar cleared his throat, and the old man turned in the general direction of his voice.

"Yes, Lord Commander, what can I help you with?"

"Does the term "eyes of blue" mean anything to you?"

"Hmmm. Something out of old legends, if I remember. Why?"

"The remnant of a four-man ranger patrol I sent out a fortnight ago has returned. He was half mad, and kept repeating that phrase over and over again."

"Troubling. Where is this ranger now?"

"In the kitchens. Warmest place we have."

"Very well. When he is sufficiently warm and lucid, let me know. I want to ask him a few things."

"Of course Maester."

As Addolgar and Walker turned to leave, Aemon spoke once more. "If this ranger is speaking the truth, then I fear we may have more to worry about than mere wildings, Commander."


End file.
